Tag Archives: marriage

There are a lot of invisible NOs as well.

I came home from my hair appointment tonight pretty late, and my head is stinky yet adorable, and I don’t have a headache, and moves were made before I left that lead me to believe that certain intentions were understood to be in the air on both sides, and when I came home and made to make good on said intentions, it turned out that SOMEONE just wanted to GO TO SLEEP.

While I believe that digging through your archives when you are in a BAD MOOD because you are leaving FOR A MONTH in less than 48 hours and you thought that there was a mutual understanding to do the business and it turns out no one is going to do the business goes against the spirit of NaBloPoMo, I think it’s PERFECTLY KOSHER to look through all of your draft posts and find an UNPUBLISHED post that just so happens to be conveniently about not doing the business, and post that.

Look, it’s November. Not only can they not all be winners, none of them are going to be winners.


Phil kept making gross sounds with his beer bottle. You’re going to have to trust me when I tell you it was super gross and frankly, quite egregious. I told him. I SAID, if you don’t stop doing that, I’m not going to do the business with you. And he wouldn’t stop. So I said, for every time you do that is one more day that I will not do the business with you. And he wouldn’t stop.

And that, students, is how The Great Sharpie Battle of 2011 began.

WITH OUR MATURITY COMBINED…. Penny still beats us.

“This isn’t my phone. Why do you keep charging this phone? Are you even using it?”

“I charged yours. And yes, I’ve been experimenting with it.”

“I’ll experiment your FACE.”

“Your face IS an experiment.”


“That failed?”


Potential audio records of the truth, wrecking notebooks, and I deleted a whole long thing about breast milk.

I think that the next time I want to tell you how wrong Phil is, a la many of the Settle This posts, I am just going to sit us down in front of the computer and record the whole conversation. That way, he can tell you how wrong he is in his own words. When I write those posts, I feel like I need to cut him some slack and soften his wrongness a bit, because we’re married and that’s my job as a wife – to prove him wrong constantly, but gently. If he digs his OWN hole, I have no such obligation. And then you will see. You will see what I live with, when you’re all so busy heaping him with praise for dealing with me.

You two assclowns deserve each other.


Speaking of times Phil is wrong, I want to recount the argument in rhyme Phil and I had last night, but I am pretty sure he won, so that has no place here on my blog. Also, I have a suspicion that you wouldn’t be so much awed by our verbal skills as you would be kind of repulsed.

Though, while he may technically have gotten the last word, I do think that rhyming “socks” with “fart box” was slightly more brilliant than his pairing of “face” with “cock mace.” Because a cock mace isn’t even a thing.

My first word is going to be “emancipation.”


You know what’s terrible? When you get a new notebook (of course you not only have plenty of half-used notebooks and also don’t have a specific purpose in mind for a new notebook) and it gets ruined.

You take it home and decide on its specific purpose, and how it will only be used for that purpose. And how you will use the new pens you bought, because of course you got new pens for your brand new notebook. Nice pens.

And for a couple of days you use it for that purpose, and then you have to SCRIBBLE SOMETHING OUT, because of course you were writing in pen – you got NEW PENS. So you rip that page out and write the whole thing over, EVEN IF it was 3/4 of a page and only one tiny mistake.

And then you’re on the phone or something and accidentally jot something down on one of the pages, and you can’t rip it out, because there’s other stuff on the page, the stuff that is supposed to be in your new notebook. So you rip out that corner.

But then you have to write a shopping list, because there is suddenly NO OTHER PAPER IN THE WHOLE DAMN HOUSE, and you flip to some random blank page in the notebook to write it. And then a couple of days later, you flip to some random blank page and write another list. Maybe a to do list.

And then you have another HALF USED, RUINED NOTEBOOK littering up your house, and they’re EVERYWHERE, except none of them will be anywhere close at hand when you need to jot something down while you’re on the phone or write a new shopping list, and you will ruin your NEXT brand new notebook.

Yep. That’s terrible.

Let’s be honest – a headband on me is like tits on a bull.


I’m tapped out on content right now, because Sheldon is standing at the back door and YELLING, I am not even kidding you, and I can’t even think of any words that aren’t “Goddamnit Sheldon!,” but I do have one last picture of Penny and no unrelated block of text to pair it with, so here it is.


Things I did this weekend: camp applications, Harry Potter, argued about toilet paper.

Let me tell you a little bit about what I did this weekend, but first, you should know this – AS I TYPE, Penny is having her first real nap. You know, the kind of nap where I deliberately PUT HER DOWN for a nap. Not in her little baby chair when she feels like sleeping, not in her swing because she’s been crying and crying and I don’t know what else to do. In her little Penny bed, swaddled up, at a time decided upon BY ME. For the first time.


After taking, watermarking, and uploading that picture, I realize that you probably would have taken my word for it. I should have let you take my word for it, because I waited until two hours in to said nap to start writing this post. I spent the rest of the time tiptoeing down the hall and peering around the door frame. Baby naps are such an unproductive waste of my time.

Also, have I said enough times yet that Penny’s blanket was sent to her by Rhy?

Or that it has seen her through a lot? Or that Rhy has a yarn store right here? (Which I was just looking at and realized that we probably lived, like, 8 minutes apart before I came out here to AZ.) Or that we call it Special Blanket? As in, “Where’s Special Blanket? She needs Special Blanket.”

Anyway, all of those things.

So. This weekend.


Decided to start the process of getting the dogs interviewed and approved to hang out at Camp Bow Wow.

Guess who apparently was not impressed with our plans?

Well, too bad, Sheldon, because you are going to the freaking camp and YOU WILL PLAY, because any weekend that sees me shrieking at the top of my lungs,


is pretty much a come to Jesus moment about the dogs and their need for exercise or at least TIME AWAY FROM ME.


Packed up to scale Everest.

I KID. Obviously. Because, HA.

That’s all the stuff we packed to take Penny to her first movie – Harry Potter at the drive in!

She clearly loved it, as you can tell. Do we count that as her first movie, or is her first “official” movie one where we take a small yet conscious child to sit in a seat for an hour and a half and shush her through a stupid movie we don’t even want to see in the first place?

Not important. What’s important? I loved it. It went so fast, though, didn’t it? I mean, I know there was a lot to cover in the last book, but man. It just blew by. Like any other fan, I would have been pleased as all hell for them to go into all kinds of crazy detail and gone to part 3, part 4, part one jillion. Seriously, I could happily watch Harry Potter for as long as they want to draw it out. Except, they aren’t drawing it out. So. It’s over.

BUT, back to the movie. Snape, you guys. Right? RIGHT?


This is where Penny finally woke up, I went and got her, fed her, changed her, dressed her, put her in her baby chair, went to the kitchen, stood in front of the stove where a diet soda cake is hanging out, and ate some cake with a fork right out of the pan.

Like you’ve never.

Don’t worry, I’m cancelling it out with some frozen grapes.

That reminds me, though, of my first real experience with the SO SO SO SO SO HUNGRY phase of pregnancy, when one morning, AFTER I ate a granola bar and a banana, and WHILE my waffle was in the toaster, I stood in front of the same stove, where some brownies were hanging out, and ate some. By fist. I was so frantically, panic-ly hungry that I ate brownies by the fistful during the seemingly unending Eggo toasting process.

I don’t have pregnancy as an excuse right now, but I do have a serious case of don’t feel like getting a plate.


I did not buy another adorable pirate-themed fitted diaper this weekend.

But I did get the one I bought last weekend in the mail.


Penny learned to stick out her tongue and hasn’t stopped since, which is adorable, until you are the one returning her pacifier to her mouth every 5 minutes between 10pm and 2am.

In case it wasn’t clear, I am the one. I am the one who is returning the pacifier to her mouth every 5 minutes between 10pm and 2am.


Lastly, the toilet paper argument was once again rehashed.

The toilet paper issue, you see, is two-fold.

First, we can’t seem to agree who is at fault for the fact that we go through nearly an entire roll of toilet paper per day.

Maybe if you didn’t need to roll a 3 inch thick catcher’s mitt of toilet paper around your hand every time you used the bathroom, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

“First, I don’t make a poo-mitt. Second, YOU PEE FIFTY TIMES A DAY.”

Second, we can’t agree on when it is time to change the roll. I’m here alone, and I keep the toilet paper supply at an adequate level for my anticipated needs. Even if that means just leaving one or two rotations of paper on the roll until my next visit. (WHICH IS SO NOT FIFTY TIMES A DAY.) Phil doesn’t like this, though. He thinks that I should ANTICIPATE that he might arrive home sometime between the last time I went and the next time I’ll go. Therefore, since he MIGHT arrive, toilet paper levels should be keep adequate for HIS NEEDS at all times.

This has lead to a lot of him coming home, grabbing PC Gamer, heading into his lair, and huffing back out mere moments later to glower at me as he grabs a fresh roll. I inevitably bellow back at him, “THERE IS PLENTY OF TOILET PAPER IN THERE.”

I know what you’re thinking. Men and women have different toilet paper needs (Phil did not, at first, know that even if a diaper is only wet, areas must still be wiped down well, though who would really expect him to), and I should maybe go ahead and change the roll if there are only a few inches left, even if those few inches are adequate for me. You’re siding with Phil.

Except, no. Because this is what PHIL considers to be an inadequate amount of toilet paper left on the roll, necessitating a roll change as soon as I become aware, by all of the lights and sirens, that we have reached DEF CON LEVEL toilet paper emergency situations:


Anyway, we’ve made no progress on this argument since the last time I told you about it over a year ago, so there’s really no reason for me to include it here, except that I feel like you guys deserve updates on things you’ve taken the time to read. Just a service I like to provide.

So, to sum up:

UpdatePhil still ridiculous about toilet paper.

Chocolate Chewbacca credit, my mom on Facebook, and the only picture of me and Penny you’ve ever seen.

My mom sent Phil a chocolate Chewbacca on a stick for Easter and it’s sitting in a bowl on our kitchen counter.

I’ve been over and over it in my mind, and the only way I can think to demonstrate to Phil just how LONG I’ve refrained from eating HIS chocolate Chewbacca is to eat it and then, when he notices, demand credit for holding out as long as I did. I’m not getting any praise with it just sitting there.

You’re not getting any praise for this outfit, either.


Last night, Penny and I went to bed, as we do, and waited for Phil to join us. It got later and later and eventually I realized that he was going to be REALLY annoyed in the morning if he didn’t come to bed soon, so I went to find him. He was sacked out on half of the couch (because baby stuff takes up the other half), and it took a ridiculous amount of convincing to get him up and moving to bed. He just kept looking at me and going, “I quit!” and falling back asleep. Totally out of it.

He did get up, though, and let the dogs out and came to bed. I said to him, “Did you remember to let the dogs in?” He said he did, just as Brinkley came lumbering into the room. I’m obviously including that detail for a reason.

Three or so hours later, Penny woke up to eat. I got up to go to the bathroom and realized I only stepped over Brinkley. I scanned the rest of the bedroom – no Sheldon. Came out to the living room, hoping he’d be asleep on the love seat – no Sheldon.

At that point, I immediately freaked out, because Sheldon is known to jump our fence and he’s a black dog and it was night time – a combination for awful disaster. I saw that the back light was still on and ran towards the back door. I spotted a big black lump leaning against the sliding door and was so relieved. I opened the door and was hit in the face with the still almost 100 degree heat and let him in. He almost knocked me over getting to the dog water fountain (yes) and completely drained it, then flopped down on his stomach on the floor while I refilled it for him to drain again.

I stormed into the bedroom and starting railing at Phil, because COME ON. You KNOW he escapes. You KNOW it’s hot out there. He was too asleep to respond in a way that I felt was appropriate, though, so I waited until this morning to demand that he apologize to Sheldon and check on him.

Phil says, “It was an accident. Oops.”

And I say, “It was hot! He could have escaped! He was SO THIRSTY.”

Phil says, “He seems fine.”

And I say, “He was almost dehydrated! He could have gotten VERY SICK. Or? Escaped and gotten hit by a car! There was a TERRIBLE thunderstorm after I let him in.”

Phil says, “Accidents happen, and he’s fine.”

I get that he’s fine and I get that accidents happen, and I kind of get that there’s no reason to dwell, but I feel like I need Phil to mull over each and every possible disaster scenario that could have occurred before I can get over the situation.

Kind of like how when I’m showering, I think about being negligent in my soap removal and then accidentally not drying my soapy arms well and picking up Penny and she slips right out of my slippery arms. I feel like these things need to be acknowledged. As stuff that COULD HAVE HAPPENED.

Basically, Phil is not fretting over things that didn’t happen enough for my comfort.

This is awful! I hate this! Pick me up, you assholes!


I can always tell when my mom has made her once weekly visit to Facebook by the two page list of notifications alerting me to the fact that she has “liked” everything I’ve posted in the last 7 days. Except for the status updates that contain foul language, and a complete refusal to acknowledge any captions on pictures of Penny that contain the F-bomb or the asshole-bomb.

Example: Picture of Penny, captioned: “I hate you, get the fuck out of my face!”

My mom’s comment: She looks so happy! She must be looking at her mama!

She also comments on old status updates, which is especially funny in the case of my brother, who would post something like, “Tired” during his college finals. There’d be a little back and forth between his friends in the comments, then three days of nothing, then my mom posts, “Why?”

It’s weird, because my mom has a completely fine grasp of technology (except for prevention of the ass dial – you have NEVER been pocket dialed as many times as this woman is capable of. If you get a call Saturday morning and hear the inside of my mom’s purse, prepare to spend the next 45 minutes picking up the phone nearly constantly, bellowing, “MOM! MOOOOOOOM! STOOOOOOOP” and hoping she hears the disembodied voice of her child coming from inside of her purse. Things, admittedly, did get a little better when she got a touch screen phone, but mindbogglingly, it STILL HAPPENS reasonably regularly.)

AS I WAS SAYING, she has a completely fine grasp of technology, she just puts her own mom twist on it. Like replying to Facebook statuses as if she’s in a personal conversation with the poster. Or? OR? When I text her pictures of Penny? She calls me to discuss the picture.


Penny, right after that whole tummy time business:

Not cool, guys. Not cool.


I wanted to roll a new toon in WoW last weekend, but whenever I try to do it myself, no combination of class and race really appeals to me. While I was feeding Penny, I told Phil to just go ahead and create something for me.

I came back to find a warlock named Lwaxana. Er, no. Delete. I should have known he’d make a warlock, considering he has 75 warlocks himself, but I just wasn’t feeling it. Plus, Lwaxana? No.

He asked for another chance, though, so, fine. I was out of the room for a bit and came back to find myself standing in the human starting area as a paladin named Sumki.

“What the shit is a Sumki?”

“I used Google Translate! I thought you’d get it…”

(Years of Russian come back to me.)

“Sumki? As in, the plural of sumka? Like, purse? Purses?”

“It’s supposed to be bags.”

… you’re an asshole!


You know what is a serious boner killer? When you’re in the car and the Proclaimers come on, and you’re listening to I’m Gonna Be, and you think that you and the other person in the car are on the same page.

You think that, at least, until you bellow out the first “DA DA DA!” at the top of your lungs, and he DOES NOT DO the echo back “DA DA DA!”

I swear, nothing has ever made me question my marriage more.


These are your parents, Penny.

Too bad.

Offers of Schmelp.

I think it is more than clear on this blog that Phil doesn’t shirk any parenting duties. No, quite the opposite, in fact – he picks up all the parenting duties that I shirk.

(Which aren’t a lot, just so you know. I mean, the duties that I shirk. It’s mostly holding. And it’s not that I don’t hold her. I don’t really hold her between 4pm and 8pm. It’s not as terrible as it sounds. I don’t like to be touched and crowded, you know? So after a whole day of feeding and holding, maybe I just let PHIL do the holding when he comes home from work. Is that SO awful? No. No, it’s not.)

Anyway, Phil is not a big shirker of parenting duties and this is due to two factors: one, he doesn’t mind doing parenting things because, as I often taunt him, “ha ha, Phil likes his baby!” and two, I obviously do all of the weekday daytime parenting and since switching to exclusively breastfeeding, I do all of the nighttime parenting as well. I don’t wait at the door at 4pm ready to hand over the kid, but he does step up to give me a break to shower, go to the bathroom with the door closed, or eat something that I don’t have to shove in my mouth by the fistful when no babies or dogs are looking. Or, I can use that time to cook Phil some dinner.

Why don’t you go stand in front of the microwave for a while and warm up my dinner?

Phil carries his helpfulness over into the night, as well – or at least, he’d like credit for carrying his helpfulness over into the night as well. The dark of night is where the Offers of Schmelp come into play.

Ever since we brought Penny home, Phil has said the same thing over and over: “What can I do?” or “Is there anything I can do?”

I would say that, over the entire course of Penny’s residence in this house, that those questions are met with a sane, reasonable answer about 60% of the time. The other 40% of the time falls into one these categories.

1. The first few (okay, five) weeks.

Scene: Some ungodly hour, me sitting up in bed with a shrieking baby who is railing against the injustice of being born.

Phil: What can I do?


2. When breastfeeding juuuuust started to take hold.

Scene: Some ungodly hour, me sitting up with a frustrated and shrieky baby for the third time, dealing with crappy latch and biting and pain and possibly following up with some pumping.

Phil: What can I do?

Me, with the most angry glare I can muster: Stop asking me what you can do! You can’t do anything! I HAVE TO DO IT ALL MYSELF. When you ask, “What can I do?,” you just remind me that there’s nothing you can do and it MAKES ME MAD. YOU’RE MAKING ME BE AN ASSHOLE TO YOU. STOP ASKING THAT QUESTION. YOU’RE THE REASON I’M AN ASSHOLE.

3. Offers of Schmelp.

Now that Penny is nursing like a pro and we have a basic night time routine down, or, at least, don’t often find ourselves confronted with unfamiliar nighttime situations that we feel don’t feel prepared to handle, the Offers of Schmelp have started rolling in.

When Penny wakes up in the night, I get up and feed her. Since I’m already up, I also change her. Sometimes I still pump in the night as well. During these wake ups, which are generally 45 minutes to an hour, all told, but can stretch as long as two or more hours depending upon the mood of Miss Penny, Phil sleeps next to me. I usually ask him to hold her for a minute or two while I run to the bathroom or lay down her changing pad, but for the most part, he sleeps through nighttime wake ups.

That doesn’t stop him, though, from throwing out an Offer of Schmelp.

An Offer of Schmelp is when you seemingly sincerely offer your assistance, knowing full well that there’s nothing at all you can do – making it perfectly safe to offer so schmelp in the middle of the night.

The process of a nighttime wake up is feed, change, back to sleep. Penny sleeps with me, so it makes sense that I need to get her back to sleep. And all of the diaper changing stuff is on my side of the bed, soooo… And of course, he can’t feed her.

(Three nights ago:

“You know what? If I had one wish, I’d wish that you had the breasts on your chest half of the time.”

“That’s what you’d use your wish on? Why not wish for a billion dollars so we could just pay nannies and stuff?”

“No. The breasts thing. That’s my wish. That’s what I want.”)

Really, it just doesn’t make any sense for Phil to be involved in any of it. But when I’m up at midnight, 2:30, and 4am, he throws out his Schmelp Offers. It’s safe, see, to offer help. He gets full credit for being a concerned husband who wants to do what he can, but he knows he’s not going to be called on to get out of bed.

You offer Schmelp when you want to give the appearance of willingness to get down in the trenches with the person next to you, but know full well that you’re going to get to continue to sleep. See? Points for offering with no risk of having to actually crack an eyelid.

I mean, these days, at 2:30 in the morning, when Phil notices I’ve been awake for an hour or so, this happens:

Phil: Is there anything I can do?

Me: No. Just go back to sleep.

I’ve been up with our joint baby for quite a while, see, and he wants me to know that he would also TOTALLY put in an hour as well, but, you know. He can’t feed her and all the diaper changing stuff is on my side, soooo… you know. But he’s throwing the offer out there so that I know that he would totally put in an equivalent effort if he could.

Seems normal, you’re thinking. How is that Offering Schmelp?

Well, Internet, ask yourself this. Would Phil make the same offer at 2:30am if there was ANY CHANCE of the scenario going like this?

Phil: Is there anything I can do?

Me: I’m so glad you asked. I’ve been up for an hour or so now, I’m so wiped out. You know what would really help me out? If you could just go and do the couple of loads of laundry I left by the washer and also unload the dishwasher? That would really be a load off for me. Thanks so much!



So, Internet, I hope I have made the distinction between offering to help and Offers of Schmelp clear enough that you can now share with me some of your own experiences with schmelp. You know. The ones shouted towards the kitchen from someone sprawled out on the couch, or from a friend 3000 miles away when you’re getting ready to move and you have infant triplets and your dog just had 84 puppies.

Pandora, Purchases, Penny… Phather’s Day. Ok, that was a stretch.

I’m on to you, Internet. Now I’m putting pictures of Penny between the words so you’ll at least have to skim by and one or two might lodge themselves into your eye.

This method will also conveniently disguise the fact that nothing I have to say is related to anything else that I have to say.

Penny nursing with pinky up

Penny eats with pinky up on the regular. I am not even fucking with you.

I want you to know some things about Phil. I think I make him sound pretty good on this blog. Sometimes, even when I am attempting to show you what a butt mouth he can be, the comments reflect the fact that many of you are impressed by Phil and I assume by his tolerance of me. I swear, it’s like he’s some kind of goddamn mesmer or something, the way people are all, “Team Phil! We back you in this lifelong endeavor of being married to this woman!”


I tolerate HIM, TOO.


– always, without fail, points the shower head all cockeyed when he gets out of the shower.
– insists – INSISTS – on calling “Baba O’Riley” TEENAGE WASTELAND, even though he knows DAMN WELL that is NOT what it is called.
– will call whatever I am watching “the worst show ever,” making it sound as though I am torturing him by forcing him to watch the ONE SHOW IN THE WORLD he finds intolerable. Law & Order: SVU and Roseanne can’t BOTH be the worst show in the world, Phil. It’s not possible.
– I’ve been using Pandora since 2004, and if you’re a Pandora user, you know what that means – my stations are AWESOME [to me]. Years of work, people. Years. Thumbing and thumbing and thumbing. Since we are now sharing one computer in the living room and also have a television that can play Pandora, I shared the log in details of my account so that we could listen while cleaning and doing shit around the house, like you do, you know?

I trusted him with my stations.

If Phil’s SO GREAT, Internet, why is my Bon Jovi station playing so much Dr. Dre?



Penny waiting for service

I went to get my My Brest Friend pillow for Penny’s snack between Early Breakfast and Mid-Morning Second Breakfast/1st Lunch Preview and came back to find a note propped next to her:

So, Phil’s first Father’s Day is coming up. Now, I have a father, so I’d like to think I’m pretty well prepared to handle this, except Phil doesn’t wear ties.

So, basically, I’m not prepared at all.

Ok, I sort of am. This is going to make me sound all 1950s housewife, but I don’t often have any money of my own. It’s not like you’re thinking. I’ve had a variety of issues with my car, so when we go places, we’re all together. Phil and I share bank accounts so when we’re out, it’s not really a big deal of who pays – it’s usually him, but if I’m closer to the register, I’ll swipe my card. It’s all the same.

But since we’re usually together and since every place takes check cards these days, I don’t usually carry any cash. That means whenever I do spend any money, it’s with my card and comes right out of the bank account with a nice label of where I’ve been.

Which I am TOTALLY ALLOWED TO DO. WHENEVER I WANT. Just so you know.

What I’m saying is that I don’t really get the opportunity to be stealth, or to feel like I’m purchasing something for Phil on my own – not just, you know, buying something. From our joint account.

HOWEVER, Phil does like to carry cash. And when we’re out together and he pulls out some cash, he usually hands me a $20 as well, assuming that I, too, would like to carry cash.

It’s not an allowance. In case you were thinking that. I have access to ALL the money, WHENEVER I want. Not that I need to explain our financials to you. I’m just explaining them a little. So you understand.

Right, so, Phil gives me this money because even though it doesn’t usually occur to me, he’s a thoughtful guy and considers the fact that I might want to do some autonomous spending – to have some money of my own, separate from the budget, to do whatever I please.

Pretty much without fail, I use said money to buy us both Coldstone.

HOWEVER. Recently, I have been squirreling said money. So. All of this to say, I’ve got some money. Money that has been removed from the bank account, thus from the joint budget, handed to me, and then promptly forgotten.

So, while all of our money is OUR money, it is safe to say that this bunch I have been poking away into a hidey hole is most assuredly MY money.

Now, I still have no idea what to DO with it, but I will spend it on an item or a dinner of his choosing. I realize that I have not come up with a thoughtful gift to mark his first Father’s Day, but I’m hoping that, “Hey, you know how money is kind of tight right now? Here, you choose how to spend this money I have been hoarding instead of immediately spending on Peanut Butter Cup Perfections” will totally be one of those “thought that counts” deals.

IN SUMMATION: It’s hard to buy gifts when you share a bank account, because some of the essential GIFTY-NESS is stripped away. Also, I’m a poor planner.

Baby knee dimple

You guys. Knee dimple.

A couple of people have already asked me for a post about my experiences with cloth diapers, which I guess I can understand, considering how constantly I sought out blog posts and forum posts and all kinds of other information on how it all WORKED.

However, there are SO many out there that I really don’t think I have anything new to say. Aside from the fact that she’s only been in her cloth for a week-ish now. She goes in the diapers and then I wash them. I know, I know, there’s 8000 “But what about!!!” questions, and I had them, too, but honestly, getting into it, that’s really what it’s come down to so far. She goes, and I wash them.

Maybe a little farther down the road I’ll have a system down enough that I’ll write something about, you know, what I do, personally, but as far as general cloth diapering information, there is SO MUCH out there that I don’t have anything new to say at this point.

I put cloth on Penny as much as possible, usually sticking to prefolds and covers when it’s just me and her and switching to pockets when Phil is home, because dude will not deal with prefolds. And even the pockets, if I don’t put one IN HIS HAND, he will ferret out one of the last tiny sized disposables in the house and put it on her butt. He’s accepted and okay with the fact that we will be doing cloth, but is going to hang on to disposables until we absolutely run out, and even then, I can imagine him rigging up some kind of duct tape/paper towel creation.

I’m sure he’ll make the switch just fine (once he can no longer find a disposable anywhere in the house), but he is still refusing cloth wipes. I have some very nice, very soft, good sized flannel wipes and a spray bottle of wipe solution, so it is not only JUST as easy (and, I think, more butt-luxurious) as disposable wipes, but it also saves having to carry a dirty disposable wipe to a second location.

Phil doesn’t make any kind of sense when it comes to baby poop, people.

But really, who does?

At my last appointment with Dr. Nameless, he checked my c-section incision and said, “You healed awesome. That looks great. I’m really psyched.”

Yes, he said psyched.

Obviously, as a doctor who sees c-section incisions all the time, we must assume that not every incision inspires psych-itude. I mean, come on. If he was going to blow smoke up my ass, Penny was sitting RIGHT THERE. He could have complimented my baby, not my be-stripe-ed belly, you know?

We can only conclude that I have healed extra well.

If you’ve been reading this site since the dawn of time (which is what I consider the day I started writing this site because, come on, who cares what went on in the world before that day?), you know what this means. I am reaching way back into the sands of time and adding this spectacular awesomeness of midsection healery to the evidence file.

Baby Penny in a yellow dress

Remember how I told you about how we tried to buy a Nook, but it never came, and Phil spent literal HOURS on the phone with Barnes & Noble customer service trying to get one/get a refund, and then ordered a second one because the first one was NEVER COMING and even though we PRE-ORDERED a Nook and were supposed to have one on June 3rd, we still remain Nookless, almost 2 weeks after the early release date and PAST the SCHEDULED release date, and got ZERO HELP from Barnes & Noble, and I was in a fury so intense that I ACTUALLY TWEETED at the Barnes & Noble person on Twitter, which I have NEVER DONE IN MY LIFE?

Yeah, we cancelled the orders and bought a Kindle.

And MOMENTS LATER, the Barnes & Noble person on Twitter decided to respond – asking me to write to customer service.

We ordered a Kindle yesterday and it will be here today. I’m done with Mr. Barnes Noble. Up his.